


Need not to Need

by Askellie



Series: SLAUE [23]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, soul manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: “You’re looking so much better, Sans!” Papyrus tells him, which Sans thinks is a very courageous lie.Sans isn't okay, but neither is anyone else.
Relationships: Chara & Papyrus (Undertale), Chara & Sans (Undertale), Kedgeup - Relationship, Kustard, Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale), honeyketchup - Relationship
Series: SLAUE [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/582748
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Need not to Need

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's been forever since I updated this series, huh? o.o
> 
> And I really need to go back through it and give it an intense editing, because the timeline is still a mess and there's been some big changes (eg. Underswap Pap is going by 'Honey' now because juggling too many Papyruses was just getting too hard). A lot of the backstory and headcanons revealed in this chapter are things that only got vaguely alluded to on my now defunct tumblr back when I was doing a lot (A LOT LOT) of theorycrafting for this idea.
> 
> But I figured I better post it now before I end up procrastinating over Christmas. >_>
> 
> A HUGE thanks to [Ravvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravvi/pseuds/Ravvi) who bravely edited my messy first draft, and to @AshTheRat1 who commissioned the chapter so you can see the fallout of Sans's recovery. :3
> 
> Set in the aftermath of 'Trial by Fire' and 'Cool Down'.

Everything hurts.

Every fiber of his being is consumed by merciless heat. It sears into his bones, making them warp, char and crack into brittle, crumbling pieces. He’s falling apart, disintegrating flake by dusty flake and it’s horrible,  _ unthinkable _ that he’s somehow still brutally awake and  _ aware _ of the hungry flames gleefully mutilating his body. Monsters don’t believe in hell the way humans do, but for an unknowable length of time, Sans thinks that it must exist after all. Every moment of conscious thought is an unendurable eternity of blistering heat and endless suffering. His last remnants of sanity scrabble for humor as some final, paltry defence against the terrible reality of it, but all that bubbles up is empty, maddened laughter that echoes emptily inside his skull. The haunting, distorted voice is worse than the burning. A sickening cacophony of senseless noise gloating over his pain, taunting his pathetic attempt to endure.

It's HIS voice.

And then, somehow, it stops.

He doesn’t know when. He doesn’t know how. One moment he’s burning alive, and next it’s like he’s at the bottom of a deep ocean. It’s cool and dark and blissfully quiet.  He feels comfortably numb, like every sense has been gently cocooned against the harshness of reality . The pain’s still there, but it’s distant, meaningless and unthreatening. He’s safe. Everything is 

He wakes up.

It’s a graceless, messy and painful awakening. He’s barely opened his eyes before he’s heaving up what feels like months of congealed magic that’s been sitting in the back of his throat, choking him with sour rot, and the taste of gritty ash. He tries to turn his head, but all that does is divert the vile spray a little to the side so it hits his shoulder instead of his sternum. He blinks owlishly, and his eye-lights must not be working because the color of his magic is all wrong. There’s flecks of black and red through what should have been an icy cyan, making it look almost indigo. 

He’s only just beginning to feel the unpleasant wet heat of it seeping through his shirt when careful hands scoop beneath his knees and shoulders, lifting him from the bed. A tide of soft, meaningless reassurance washes over him with a soothing projection that almost eases him back into unconsciousness. He fights it on instinct, squinting narrowly to focus his vision on the person who’s arms he’s currently occupying. 

“Red?”

“Right here, sweetheart,” Red says, the words finally registering properly even though he’s far quieter than he should at this proximity. It’s like the time he took a nap on top of the mansion’s largest announcement speaker and ended up half-deafened by the ear-splitting shriek of an untimely feedback loop (which Chara took no responsibility for, of course). 

He struggles to lift his head from Red’s shoulder, but it feels like his skull is stuffed to bursting heavy with rocks. He has questions, but drawing air into his ravaged throat is hard enough without adding the extra effort of speech. Thankfully his most pertinent query is answered when Red shoulders open the door to the attached bathroom. It’s starkly clean in a way that Sans suddenly realises his own body isn’t, and not just because of the tacky vomit oozing down his shoulder and the corner of his mouth. His whole body feels sticky, his joints gummed up with viscous residue that makes each small movement feel disgustingly lubricated. Even by his own poor hygiene standards, he feels gross, a sensation which is only slightly more imperative than the full body ache that’s lingering just below the discomfort.

Red isn’t much bigger than Sans, but he proves to be surprisingly strong, carrying him with an almost unnatural ease. Rather than setting Sans down, he just climbs into the massive tub, clothes and all before turning on the water. The first splash is sweetly cool, and Sans sighs, his body going limp against Red’s sternum. Red’s arms are the only thing keeping him upright, but even though he can feel the subtle ambience of Red’s magic trying to lull him again, he clings tenaciously to awareness on the pure, stubborn certainty that he’s missed something important.

(Even though it’s safe now. He’s safe. The crushing weight of  _ painterrorhorror _ is gone, now just a trauma-blurred memory whose cause that doesn’t really matter.)

Red’s fully clothed in his usual sloppy combination of an oversized t-shirt and shorts, but all Sans is wearing is hospital shift that feels as flimsy as tissue paper. Red peels it off him, and beneath it is a swaddling of bandages all the way down Sans’s ribs . That at least explains some of the unfamiliar weight compressing his chest. He reaches up tentatively to touch, his memories unhelpfully blank on why they’re there and what lies beneath them. Red carefully swats him away and begins undoing them himself with a deftness and skill that’s downright uncharacteristic. 

“I got ya,” Red says in a tone more gentle than Sans had thought he was capable of. The usual spectrum of Red’s emotional gamut runs from anxious to angry. This steady care is an outlier, fascinating in its own right, keeping Sans’s sockets just barely open to watch as Red dumps all the excess cloth outside the tub. Sans is about to risk a quick glance down and then decides he doesn’t want to see whatever those bandages were hiding. Looking at Red is much safer, and he watches as Red takes a sponge and begins sluicing the coagulated magic from Sans’s bones. The cool, cleansing relief is bliss, and Sans breathes a whispery sigh. He tries to articulate his gratitude, but the words come out as an indistinguishable, contented murmur against Red’s collarbones. It makes Red chuckle for some reason, though the amusement and ease evaporate in a heartbeat at the distant sound of a door opening.

“Red?”

Skeletons don’t have hackles, but if they did, Red’s would be up, evidenced by the sudden tension in his frame. His soft expression disappears, as abrupt as a blackout, and from that blankness rises a ghost of his usual, belligerent sneer. 

“In here,” he calls grudgingly, gaze fixed on his hands as he continues to gently sponge Sans off. It’s almost sad to see. Red used to light up in a different way when Honey was around. Now there’s only a bitter kind of fury on his face as he scowls down at the sponge, a safer target for his ugly expression than the person who really reserves it.

Honey looks like hell. His shirt is rumbled from two or more days of wear, and there’s a hint of yellowing on his finger bones indicating that he’s been smoking too much again. The shadows under his sockets make the rest of his expression look grey and sickly. 

“Did he need another bath already? I gave him one just this morning-”

Honey stops mid-word, his gaze fixed on Sans’s face, his open sockets. He looks like he’s been sucker-punched. “He’s awake?”

Red grunts a surly affirmative, squeezing the sponge over Sans’s ribs, sending water pouring through his intercostal spaces. His indifference is a stark contrast to the indignant glare Honey levels at him.

“And you didn’t call me!?”

“Was I supposed to?” Red asks flatly, rinsing the sponge clean again so he can tackle the splatter of spent magic on Sans’s chin and teeth. “How would that have helped any?”

The words hit like a blow, and Honey visibly fumbles before regaining his composure. His hands roam anxiously over his pockets, mindlessly seeking out his cigarettes even though judging by the jittering twitches of his shoulders, he didn’t need any more nicotine in his system. “I need to tell Chara.”

“Do you?” Red’s voice drops into a low, dangerous octave that leaves both Sans and Honey staring at him. Sans has never thought to associate the word dangerous with Red -- not like he does with Edge, who’s only barely house-trained -- but suddenly he wonders which of them is really the one who needs watching.

Honey goes still, though whether he’s trying to calm himself or keep Red pacified is anyone’s guess. “...no, I guess not. I mean, not right away.”

“Good idea,” Red grunts, adjusting his hold on Sans to pick him up and standing with a suddenness that leaves Sans’s head spinning. “Since you’re here, you can take over. I’m gonna go get changed.”

He steps out of the tub, his clothes dripping freely over the floor, and unceremoniously deposits Sans into Honey’s arms. He stomps out without another word, leaving the other two skeletons staring dumbly after him before looking to each other with mirroring, bewildered expressions. Honey’s is the first to soften, staring down at Sans with something like wonder. 

“You’re really awake?”

“Yeah,” Sans rasps, though now he’s starting to wish he wasn’t. As glorious as it is to be clean, the pain that was hiding beneath the numbness starting to break through. He’s extra glad not to have properly seen what his ribs look like, because he’s not sure he could stand knowing just based on how they already hurt. Despite the growing pull on his attention, he can’t help but glance back to where the puddles of Red’s retreating footprints leave an obvious trail out the door. “What’s with him?”

Honey’s expression does an expressive combination of rolled eyes and a heavenward glare of exasperation. “The squirt’s got anger issues and hates my guts. Nothing new there.”

“Uh huh.” Sans feels like it’s a little more than that, but doubts Honey’s in the mood to talk about it. Beneath his frustration are a lot of complicated emotions that Sans now has a front-seat view of, each one telegraphing a blatant alarm of  _ wrongwrongwrong _ . “An’ what’s with you?”

It’s almost funny how Honey’s expression shuts down just like Red’s did a few minutes ago, though he recovers more quickly and plasters a smile over it instead of a scowl. “It’s nothing. I’m...really glad you’re oka-uh, up.”

The quick substitution of a more accurate adjective gives Sans a more concrete idea of how his ribs must look. He swallows hard, fidgeting in Honey’s arms. His bones are still dripping wet, and he’s naked, neither of which are a comfortable state right now. The strain must be showing in Sans’s expression, because Honey quickly moves to take action. He sets Sans down in a plush pile of clean towels, arranging them until Sans is covered without any undue weight resting on his chest. Then, he kneels down and pats him dry, fingers carefully squeezing Sans as if making sure he’s real and present. The reverence might have been flattering in different circumstances. As much as Sans wants to just bask in the pampering, there’s one more important question he’s obliged to ask every time he returns after a stay of absence.

(How long was he gone this time? Or rather, how long has he been back but unaware, injured and comatose? He can’t remember what happened, but if Honey’s treating him with kid-gloves, maybe he doesn’t want to remember.)

“Chara?”

Honey doesn’t quite flinch at the name, but his expression clouds over with a touch of petulance that’s quite like Chara themself. “They’re in a meeting right now, and...Red’s right. They can wait. I’ll talk to them later.”

They won’t be happy when they find out, but hopefully that’ll be Honey’s problem to deal with. Sans allows himself a yawn, squinting blearily. “You don’t need to go keep them out of trouble?”

Honey scoffs. “Like I ever could.”

Despite the negligent dismissal, Sans can hear something else in Honey’s tone that rings with the same wrongness as his earlier expression: bitter regret, guilt, a stark hopelessness he’s valiantly trying to cover with a feigned lack of concern.

Sans should dig deeper. It’s his job to act as Honey’s conscience, to dig into those doubts and mistakes and help set him straight, but right now he’s too exhausted. It’s easier to let his sockets fall close, his breathing go deep and consciousness to fade too swiftly for him to catch the whispered apologies Honey murmurs against his temple or feel the hard embrace of someone who didn’t realise how much they had left to lose. 

* * *

Hours later, Honey’s finally left to answer Chara’s persistent summons. Sans is awake again and thoroughly unhappy about it. He can’t sleep, not with his body throbbing with every merciless beat of his soul. His ribs have been rebandaged, but he can feel the awful grind of the cracks flexing open with each shallow breath he takes. He stares up at the ceiling, trying to distract himself with awful puns, but his jokes seem to have taken a distinctly morbid tone which isn’t helping his mood. 

“Sans!”

He’s rudely roused from his murky stupor by the cheerful, sing-song call. He doesn’t answer back, but the door opens regardless, allowing Blue to enter, dragging his oversized serving cart behind him. Somehow between one blink and the next, Blue is right in his face, tucking the sweat-rumpled blankets back around him in a neat swaddle. 

“It’s good to see you! I’ve been so worried, but Honey said you’re finally feeling better so I thought you would enjoy a nice breakfast! Well, actually it’s more like dinner, but breakfast is an important meal so it’s better not to miss it no matter what time it is!”

It’s too many words spoken too shrilly for Sans to take in. As sweet as Blue is, his presence is like sandpaper scouring against Sans’s nerves. But objecting seems like too much work, so all he does is hunker down and endure as Blue sets up a tray stand across his lap and loads it with dishes.

“We’ve missed you, Sans,” Blue says, the stars in his eyelights much smaller than usual, though he’s still trying to force an upbeat smile. “It’s never the same when you’re gone, you know, but this time it’s been even worse! Honey’s been so stressed lately! He’s smoking all the time, even in the house no matter how many times I tell him not to! And Red’s been really grumpy too. He doesn’t help me with the dishes anymore, and-”

Blue’s cheerful monologue is a drone of abrasive noise, like a mosquito trapped in Sans’s skull. The mention of Red’s name makes his soul do a funny lurch in his chest, a brief pang of something (gratitude? longing?) making his breath catch before easing back into comfortable apathy. Normally he’d be soaking in all the information like a sponge -- Blue’s always been the best source of household gossip, the best, oblivious informant he has. Everyone likes Blue, everyone trusts him, and Sans has mined a few spectacular secrets out of the effusion of Blue’s careless chitchat. As much as he tries, his mind simply won’t focus, and so the words crash over him like an ocean wave and immediately wash off again without sticking.

With a swiftness and precision born of years of practice, Blue has the bed tray balanced with an arrangement of covered dishes. He’s using their best china, as if Sans is one of Chara’s finest guests to be impressed and pampered. It’s a wasted effort; the prospect of food is an entirely unappealing one, even though the empty throb in Sans’s soul is a warning that his magic is running dangerously low. He stares down at the trays unenthusiastically, knowing he’ll probably have to force a couple of mouthfuls in order to placate Blue’s feelings, and that his body will probably be better off for doing so. 

“Since it’s a little bit later in the day, I thought you might be extra hungry!” Blue chatters, reaching out to remove the cloche over the largest plate. “Chara told me I could use some of their reserved ingredients. I hope you like it!”

As the cover is removed, the scent of charred meat wafts straight into Sans’s nasal cavity. Even though Blue hasn’t said anything, Sans can feel Chara’s gloating influence all over this offering -- probably their revenge for being made to wait to hear the news of Sans’s recovery. Most household slaves subsist on a diet of roughage tempered with magic to make it edible. More affluent houses like theirs also get vegetables and some of the finer grains, along with the occasional bounty of slugs, mollusks or even fish. Real meat is a luxury reserved for their human masters, and prime cuts, like the steak Blue has served him, would only be gifted to their most important guests.

It’s exactly the kind of awful, cruel pretense of generosity Sans should have known to expect. The meat glistens beautifully with silky oils, and he has no doubt it’s been seasoned, and cooked to perfection. That doesn’t stop his soul from colvulsing in utter revulsion, as the smell of singed bone and smoked meat makes his head throb with suffocating panic. He turns to the side just fast enough to avoid ruining the dish, heaving thick, slimy bile onto the carpet. He can barely hear Blue’s cry of alarm over the deafening ringing in his skull. It feels like the smoke is in his eyes, his mouth, blinding and choking him, he can’t breathe, he can’t-

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” There’s arms around him, holding him together, anchoring him back to reality. The ridiculous frills of Blue’s dress cushion his bones with a pillowy softness that Sans can bury his face against, helping to block out the world as he gasps for breath. All he can smell now is the bones and pastry flour native to Blue, enhanced by the botanicals he uses to perfume their laundry. It’s familiar and comforting.

(Nothing at all like the smell of sour burning and the acrid taste of char and ash sticking in his throat, choking off his screams-

-no, no, don’t think about it, don’t think, push it down, it’s SAFE now...)

“S-sorry,” he gurgles weakly against Blue’s collarbones, discomfitingly aware of the foul streaks that his chin and teeth have left on Blue's crisp, white bodice.

“Oh no, it’s my fault,” Blue murmurs, still cradling Sans against him. The lacy silk of his gloves makes his fingers glide smoothly over Sans’s skull as he gently strokes along the coronal sutures. It’s strange that for all the much more blatantly sexual touching he and Blue have done, this embrace seems strangely more intimate. “I should have realised that you’d need something much lighter while you were still recovering!”

Sometimes it’s hard to be sure how firm Blue’s grasp of right and wrong really is, but in this instance he sounds earnestly sincere and contrite. He must have honestly taken Chara’s recommendation to heart, then, without thinking through the consequences. It’s hard to hold simple ignorance against him, and Sans sighs, shutting his eyes against the sudden, stabbing migraine he’s gained from sensory whiplash. The light feels like it’s boring into his sockets as Blue sets him back against the pillow, fussily wiping the sweat from Sans’s skull. 

“Let me make you something else? Maybe just plain toast?”

Sans’s stomach does a low, agonising roll, and he vehemently shakes his head. 

“Broth then! Or tea! Something very simple...oh, but we should get cleaned up first.” He looks down at the stains on his dress, and then with an careless shrug he deftly tugs it up over his head, leaving him in only some very skimpy lingerie. It’s one of the sets he’s modified himself to fit better over a skeleton’s pelvic bone but, being made of sheer while lace, hides absolutely nothing. The ruffled trim gives the illusion of a flare at his hip-bones whilst emphasising the narrow cavity of his pelvic inlet beneath its silken veneer. His illness makes his bones even smaller and slimmer than Sans’s, and the pale sheen of his stockings and garters hides the slight imperfections along the bone where they’ve cracked and healed. Holding Sans’s chin, he uses the discarded trail of his skirts to wipe the corner of Sans’s mouth, then leans in close to breathily whisper, “Or maybe there’s something else I can do to make you feel better?”

“Uh…” Sans blinks in utter dumbfoundment. His libido is nonexistent, and he doubts his body would even be up to the task...not that Blue would make him work hard, no, he’s always been generous and willing to do most of the work, but between the ache in his chest and the taste of bile in his mouth, the idea of being touched is more repellent than enticing. Sans has gotten it up in some challenging circumstances before, but the generous heat of Blue’s body next to his own isn’t doing a thing for him right now. “M-maybe just that tea?”

“Okay!” Blue responds brightly, seemingly unoffended, for which Sans breathes a private sigh of relief. He doesn’t think he can handle wobbling chins or watery sockets right now. “I’ll get the pot brewing!”

He leaves, still undressed and dragging his soiled skirts behind him. No doubt anyone else who encounters him on the way to the kitchen will appreciate the picture he presents, but Sans feels only relief at his absence, suddenly wishing for another bath to wash the sweat of dread off his bones. 

* * *

“You’re looking so much better, Sans!” Papyrus tells him, which Sans thinks is a very courageous lie. Now that he’s finally managed to look at them, the mottled burns on his ribcage are horrendous. His bones are stippled with grey and purple blotches, warped in some places, thin and cracked in others. Then again, maybe this  _ is _ better, considering it’s had three whole weeks to improve while Sans was comatose (and wasn’t it so kind of Papyrus to tell him that since Honey hadn’t been willing). 

As disconcerting as it is to have lost all that time, he’s kind of glad he didn’t have to see his injuries in the early stages. Even now they’re hard to look at, so he keeps his gaze directed out the window instead.

It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming. It’s unsettlingly normal in a way that makes him feel even more displaced in his own body.

Papyrus hums thoughtfully, his fingers hovering over the pitted marks on Sans’s chest without touching. “Is it painful today?”

“Not really,” Sans replies. Normally, precious healing supplies aren't wasted on house servants, especially when the point of Chara's games is so often to inflict pain. Medicines in particular are usually reserved for the guards, and only in case of emergencies. Honey's guilt must have really been haunting him if he'd actually managed to beg, borrow, or steal a precious bottle of pain pills from Undyne. They make the agony tolerable at the cost of leaving his entire body almost entirely numb. Even when Papyrus finally lays hands on him, Sans can’t really feel them. 

Papyrus has taken his gloves off. The stark holes in his palms give Sans a pang of nostalgia that twists like a knife in his soul. That feature is so specific, so distinct, so familiar...it’s unfair that Papyrus looks at him with his brother’s face, but treats him like a stranger (albeit a friendly one). His long-boned phalanges move with the graceful precision Sans knows so well, but there’s only warm concern in his sockets instead of the removed, passionless interest Gaster so often wore. 

“I have special permission to try healing you,” Papyrus tells him, all earnest sincerity and eagerness to please. “I promise you, it’s one of my specialities!”

Sans gives a faint smile, endeared despite himself. “Sure, Pap. Show me what you can do.

As he settles back against the comfortably fluffed pillows, he can’t help but wonder if Gaster would have turned out like Papyrus -- so bright and cheerful and full of life -- if he’d been the younger brother instead of the older one. Forced to step up early to be their sole caregiver, and shouldering so much of the burden they’d faced during those last awful years of the war had stolen so much of the hope and kindness from Gaster’s soul. Maybe if Sans had been stronger, smarter, less lazy and complacent, Gaster wouldn’t have--

Well. It didn’t matter now. 

He can’t keep his breath from hissing out in a forceful exhale as the first rush of Papyrus’s healing hits him. It’s definitely potent, though with none of the tempering that skill and training would have imparted to soften the way it floods his marrow. It’s like taking a shot of hard liquor, burning harshly in the back of his throat even as he’s flushed with an unsettling heat. His soul jitters like a bird fluttering madly in the cage of his ribs, trying to take panicked flight. He doesn’t recognise the sound that comes out of his mouth -- a tight, strangled whimper -- but Papyrus halts immediately, looking at him with concern.

“Was that too much? Are you okay?”

Normally Sans would have an easy dismissal to banish the worry from Papyrus’s eye-lights, but acute discomfort prompts him to confess, “M-maybe a bit too much. Try dialing it back a bit?”

Papyrus nods determinedly, his jaw tight with concentration as he tries again. The touch of his magic still hits hard, but there’s less of it now; a few drops instead of a mouthful. It’s intense, but endurable, and Sans lets out a shaky breath as he watches some of the ugly, bubbling scars across his rib start to smooth down, the bone bleaching to a more healthy color as it heals. 

More of his own magic rises to the surface as well, the sticky film of blue welling up from the pores in his bones. It’s been a near-constant occurrence since he woke up, and one that he’s already thoroughly frustrated with. The wet surge of his magic is an entirely unconscious reaction, and as far as he can figure, a defensive one. It seems to occur every time his emotions are the slightest bit unsettled, congealed magic exuding desperately and uselessly across his body like it’s trying to coat him in a protective layer, but without intent or direction, all it amounts to is a formless mess that wastes what little reserves of energy he still has and ensures that he’ll be forced into another exhausting bath. 

It makes the process of healing extra draining, and by the time Papyrus pulls away, Sans is panting shallowly and struggling to keep his eye-lights focused. Even with the pain numbed, he feels nauseously exhausted, and the room is spinning sickeningly around him. Only Papyrus’s hands on him feel steady, anchoring him in place.

“Well done, Sans!” A large hand strokes his forehead, and even though it’s not his real brother’s voice, Sans leans into the touch like the lost, sickly child he once was. “Though I believe it’s time for another bath!”

He feels even more like a petulant child, giving a protesting whine as Papyrus pries him from the now-saturated sheets. He doesn’t want a bath, he just wants to sleep and to lose another few hours in blissful unconsiousness, but as always, life isn’t going to be kind to him.

“Hush,” Papyrus soothes him, cradling Sans’s small body against his own. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

“Mmm’kay, bro,” Sans mumbles, the word slipping from his mouth unheeded. He’s too tired to catch the way Papyrus freezes or the look he gives Sans before shaking it off, bustling onward in a flurry of activity that almost covers for his lapse. 

* * *

It’s an eerie feeling, coming awake with the feeling on someone else’s eyes on you. Sans lies still for a few breaths, trying to convince himself there’s no danger; it’s not worth another panic attack. The stare isn't hostile, just intense, so when he finally convinces his sockets to open he’s not wholly surprised to see Edge scowling down at him, eye-lights flaring like twin embers.

“You’re awake,” Edge notes, bluntly factual as always. 

Sans isn’t sure if Edge means right now, or as a revelation after three weeks of coma-like recovery, but either way his answer is the same. “Unfortunately. You need something?”

His voice is raspy and dry. Edge’s hard expression softens somewhat, and he reaches for the glass of water some saintly person had left on Sans’s bedside. For someone so gruff and surly, there’s a lot of unexpected consideration in Edge’s hold as he helps Sans sit up and steadies the water glass at his mouth so he can drink. Sans swallows in deep, greedy gulps until his throat feels less like he’s been gargling san before sitting back, panting. Edge sets the glass back down with great care.

“Do you?” Edge asks, voice soft. 

It takes Sans a moment to follow the question, an echo of his own. He considers the offer, taking a moment to assess the awakening complains of his body. The pain has been worse, as has his nausea. His stomach has reluctantly accepted those few, paltry swallows of water, but he knows food would be a bad idea. Sleep seems out of the question, with Edge staring at him like that; like he’s expecting Sans to fall down at any time, and is ready to catch his shattering soul and hold it together by force if need be

“Nah,” he says, trying to feign some measure of ease in his posture while still breathing carefully enough not to jostle his ribs. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Edge counters, the jagged line of his mouth hardening. 

Sans snorts. “Wow, okay. No I’m not, but you don’t gotta call it out like that. I’m sick, you’re meant to go easy on me.”

Edge shakes his head vehemently. “You’re not sick either. You’re  _ injured _ . They... _ he _ hurt you.”

There’s a painful looking conflict on Edge’s face as he spits out the words, like they don’t want to come out on their own. Sans blinks, a little slow to follow, even though perhaps he should have guessed this little revelation was coming. Not even a soul-fracture can completely blind someone to the truth, after all.

“You mean Honey?”

Edge nods miserably, closing his eyes. Not for the first time, Sans wonders exactly what compulsion wrought that crack in Edge’s soul. Overnight he’d gone from challenging Honey over every small upset to being unsettlingly dependant on him, constantly seeking him out with a fixation that bordered on obsessive. Even knowing it had been an unintentional accident, that hadn’t stopped Honey from taking advantage of Edge’s new compliance whenever it happened to be convenient, and watching Edge trying to fight the sick adoration that had been forced upon him made Sans uncomfortably aware of his own sins sliding a deft, knowing hand down his spine. There’s still a gaping hole in Sans’s memory regarding the actual source of his injuries, and he’s careful to respect that absence instead of trying to force his way through it. The trauma has been bad enough to leave him insensate for weeks, and convenient memory loss might very well be the only thing keeping his own soul from cracking in despair. He doesn’t know the explicit details, but that doesn’t matter; he’s not stupid. Chara’s aggravatingly cheerful visits and Honey’s guilty expressions said more than enough. Whatever had gone down, Chara had pushed hard enough that Sans had nearly died, and Honey hadn’t been able to intervene.

(Hadn’t? Couldn’t?  _ Wouldn’t? _ Honey was meant to be their check and balance, keeping Chara in line, but more and more frequently he was failing at that important duty.)

Distracting Chara isn’t enough any more. Their behavior is still escalating, growing more dangerous, more risky, and sooner or later there’s going to be dust on someone’s hands. The process of starting a revolution is too slow for Chara, who might very well self-destruct before they can play their part. Without them to act as the spearhead of the monster cause in place of the lost King and Queen, Sans doesn’t know that all their planning has much hope of success. Then again, maybe it’s always been a plan doomed to failure; placing hope in a human to be the savior of monsters rather than relying on one of their own.

(Maybe trying to have hope at all was the real failing.)

“Honey is…” Sans starts, finding the words tangling in his throat. He wants to say that Honey is trying his best. That Honey has suffered just as much as any of them. That his job is the hardest of all of them. All of those things have a ring of truth, but they’re not the whole story and it’s not what Edge needs to hear. “He’s Chara’s, first and foremost. You shouldn’t forget that. It’s his job to keep them happy, and what makes them happy is…”

He sweeps out a hand, encompassing himself, Edge and the rest of the household with one wordless gesture. The movement makes his ribs give an unhappy throb, which appropriately underscores the point. He can see Edge hanging onto his every word, sharpened phalanges leaving small tears in Sans’s sheets. With all the cameras throughout the manor, it’s almost impossible to have an honest conversation, but even with his magic weakened, Sans knows how to keep their technology blind and deaf to what he’s saying. 

“Humans don’t have love and hope in their souls like we do,” Sans tells Edge. “ And the ones that don’t find love elsewhere...well, they tend to end up with LOVE.”

Chara might have escaped that fate, if not for the coup that had destroyed their family; killed their precious brother, Asriel. He couldn’t blame them, not really, for all the hate in their soul, so virulent it poured out of them, seeking any available target, even at monsters they had once found solace in. 

It’s hard to tell what Edge is thinking, his expression twisted up with half a dozen half-realised emotions, the most prevalent of which is frustration. “So why do you stay? What is this human to hi-...you?”

Sans gives a crooked grin, pretending he didn’t notice the slip. 

“It’s complicated. I used to be friends with the Queen. She asked me to look out for them.” He gives a helpless, lop-sided shrug. “Haven’t really done a great job of it. Not that they make it easy for me.”

Sans’s reasons are simple. He made a promise once, and all his efforts are just a half-assed effort to keep it to someone who might not even be alive any more. He’s kind of an idiot like that. It’s not his answer that Edge really wants, however, though Sans doesn’t know that he’s really qualified to guess at Honey’s motivations. He’s misjudged him more than once recently, which is a pretty sad state of affairs for someone whose previous occupation was delivering judgment.

It’s hard to explain without going into all the history, all the choices that have lead to what Chara is now, but for Edge’s sake Sans tries.

“Chara’s very determined,” he says. “Sometimes it’s like they won’t stop until the world bends and gives them what they want. Like they’ll keep going back, again and again, for as long as it takes. They don’t give up.”

It’s a trait that’s as admirable as it is terrifying. Sans has seen both sides of it, Chara’s savage persistence tempered with those small moments of kindness that are the lingering efforts of their monster family’s influence. It’s those tiny moments that keep his promise to Toriel alive in his soul.

He gives his skull a small shake, dislodging the nostalgia. “For monsters like me...well, that determination sometimes feels like it’s the only thing that might fix a world as screwed up as this one. I think it’s like that for Honey too.”

Edge digests that for a moment, thinking hard enough that Sans can almost hear the cogs turning in his skull, before announcing with clarity and conviction, “That’s stupid.”

Sans barks out a laugh, the sound scraping at his raw throat. “Yeah, kinda.”

“They are a terrible human. I don’t think they can be trusted to fix anything.”

Sans leans back against the pillows, his smile pulling painfully at the corners. “I guess that depends on whether you think the worst person is capable of change. Maybe everybody can be a good person if they just try.”

Edge’s expression is flat, unimpressed. “Some people aren’t willing to try.”

Sans lets his eyes fall shut, exhausted by the conversation, the confronting truths. “Yeah. Some people aren’t. And some people think they’re trying to do the right thing and then end up making the wrong decision anyway. And even though maybe they can try again and do better, that doesn’t mean they will.”

Edge’s jaw slams shut, cutting off his retort. They aren’t talking about Chara now. He gives his head an irritable shake, his expression still full of conflict and uncertainty, but instead of pressing the issue he says, “You’re rambling like an idiot. I think you need to sleep more.”

Sans gives a tired laugh. “Yeah, probably. I think the biggest takeaway here is try not to be an idiot like me. You probably don’t want to end up where my choices have gotten me.”

Even though Sans’s tone is light and cheerful, he sees Edge wince. Even after all the healing he’s had, the smell of burned bone, sour marrow and sickness lingers in the room, an entity all of its own, looming over the conversation; a silent warning. Sans only hopes it’s enough, though hope is a resource in short supply these days. Still, as efforts go, he’s made enough of one for today. He turns his back on Edge, huddling down into the blankets and determinedly willing himself to go back to sleep.

* * *

It’s after midnight, and the rancorous echo of human laughter downstairs doesn’t quite cover up the quiet padding of footsteps in the hallway. The door opens near-silently, the lights breaking into the darkness of Sans’s room, cutting a swath of blinding illumination across his sockets. He doesn’t bother turning his head. The anticipatory beating of his soul told him who his visitor was long before the door opened. 

“Heya,” he says softly in the dark, impressed with how steady his voice sounds. “You’ve been busy, huh?”

Red gives a quiet scoff. “How come even when you’re bedridden, you’re the first to hear about things like that?”

“It’s a talent,” Sans admits, finally lowering his chin to take Red in. Normally for one of Chara’s parties, he’d have been strong-armed into an outfit that didn’t leave much to the imagination, but instead he’s wearing his favourite fluffy-hooded jacket as well as two layers beneath it. The boots he’s wearing look sturdy, made for much harder terrain than can be found anywhere in the estate, probably stolen from the soldier’s barracks. “You’re leaving.”

Red’s eyes flick towards the corners of the room in understandable paranoia, and Sans shakes his head. “They can’t hear you in here. No cameras or microphones. Figured it’d be a good idea in case you wanted to drop in to say goodbye.”

Red cracks a wry grin, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “You got me figured out enough to know that much, huh?

Not really, but Sans had hoped, stupidly and pitifully, because it wasn’t like he could track Red down himself. Sitting up in bed is still more effort than he can manage most days. Walking under his own power is out of the question. 

“So then you probably also know what I’m gonna ask you, right?” Red asks. He sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough for Sans to smell the leather of his jacket. “One time offer only, sweetheart. You wanna get out of this hell hole?”

It’s an offer so generous it’s practically insanity, because inviting Sans could only slow them down -- and Sans has no doubt that Edge is similarly packed and probably already waiting for the signal to leave. He knew it was coming even if Honey has somehow missed the blatant signs.

Leaving would be the smart thing. The sane thing. The reasonable thing. Even Toriel surely wouldn’t blame him for breaking his promise if she could see the scars left on his ribs. 

Sans gives a solemn shake of his head. “I can’t.”

Red’s grin is shark-like, vicious. He’s angry, but Sans is pretty sure that anger isn’t for him. “Can’t? Or won’t? Heh, you’re sounding a lot like him, y’know.”

Honey’s is the name no one is willing to say, apparently. 

“Yeah,” Sans agrees easily, refusing to be goaded. “But I still need to stay.”

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Red leans in, close enough that Sans could kiss him if he was willing to risk those blood-thirsty teeth. A small part of him is still recklessly tempted, especially when Red ghosts his hand over the bandages around Sans’s ribs in the pantomime of a caress. “Next time, you might not get so lucky.”

“Heh. Yeah, I know.” Sans’s grin is dark and self-recriminatory. “But I’m an idiot. Just ask Edge.”

“Yeah, he already told me,” Red says, some of the savagery dropping away from his expression. Beneath it he just looks tired and stressed. Sans catches his hand and gives it the barest squeeze of apology. 

Every moment Red lingers here is a risk - an unwarranted one since Sans has already turned him down. It’s stupid for Sans to make him linger, but there’s one thing he doesn’t want to leave unsaid. Red has been avoiding him for weeks, unlike everyone else who’s been crowding him as if being alone for half a second will dust him. Looking at Red’s face now gives him enough of a clue to figure out why. Sans had his guesses, of course, but the damning evidence is in the shadow of the same guilt Honey bears whenever he looks at Edge.

“So you didn’t give me the chance to thank you yet,” he says, as casually and mildly as he’s able. At Red’s arched, uncomprehending brow, Sans makes a vague gesture over his chest -- over his soul. “For waking me up.”

Red’s reaction is almost hilarious; like he’s trying to pale and blush at the same time, creating a splotchy pattern of confused magic across his skull. He reels back, like he expects Sans to hit him, but even though he has the strength to break free from it, Sans’s tentative hold manages to pull him up short.

“I mean it,” Sans tells him. “I dunno if I’d still be here without that, so...thanks.”

“...wasn’t nothing,” Red huffs after a long moment, face buried in his collar. That’s a damn lie, Sans is pretty sure, but now isn’t the time to have a conversation about it. Maybe it’ll never happen. If Red gets really lucky then Sans will probably never see him again after tonight, and maybe he’ll never understand why his soul twists so painfully at that knowledge.

But he’s made his decision and he can’t go back on it now. The most he’s willing to confess is, “Kinda sucks you haven’t been around. A few dead baby jokes would have livened things up in here.”

The look Red gives him is surprisingly solemn, almost as piercing as Edge’s hard looks. “If I’d stuck around, we’d never be having this conversation. I’d be dragging you out of here tonight whether you liked it or not.”

They both share a strained grin, too full of complications and emotions that have no place in circumstances like theirs. Then Red gives Sans’s hand one final squeeze and lets go. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

Red closes the door silently behind him, his footsteps disappearing into the empty corridors. Sans sits quietly in the dark for hours afterwards, the tempo of his soul growing slower, heavier with each passing moment, like it’s been taken off life-support and is having to learn to beat on its own again. It’s a miserable experience, and he wants nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up again, but he’s a little concerned that might be exactly what happens if he gives into the impulse.

And then as the sun breaks over the horizon with the onset of dawn, the manor’s sirens go off, sounding the alarm, and Sans knows it’s going to be a long, unpleasant day.


End file.
